


I Swallow Another Pill

by Coriander (JayTylerA)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Other, Patrick doesn’t know what to do, Pete’s really hurt guys, Poetry, Proceed with caution seriously guys, Rated M for mentions of drug use and abusive relationships, Slam Poetry, TW: mentions of drug abuse and abusice relationships, This can be very triggering. Please proceed with caution I cannot stress this enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTylerA/pseuds/Coriander
Summary: The man was incredibly thin, looked as if he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months, like an anaemic college kid that hadn’t eaten in a few weeks. His skin, Patrick could tell, was once dark, he was possibly a person of colour, but it had been dimmed to a pale greyish hue. His eyes were the colour of malt whiskey, but they held little life. His hair was a mess of spikes and waves and curls, once nearly taken care of, now left in disarray. Patrick wondered why someone like him was at a slam poetry meeting rather than the hospital. Then again, this slam poetry group had always been...different.





	I Swallow Another Pill

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of abuse of psych meds, attempted suicide, and an abusive relationship. Please, please don’t say I didn’t warn you. All song lyrics belong to their original owners. Pete’s poem is mine; I wrote it. DISCLAIMER: I do not own Fall Out Boy or any of its affiliates.

     Not many people ever showed up here. Hell, half the time  _Patrick_ wasn’t sure why he was here, yet, there he was, in a folding chair next to a Latina girl with her hair dyed halfway down the middle and a boy with an absolute mane of thick brown hair. 

     A loud stomp caught his attention. One foot. Another loud stomp. Two feet. Four feet. Eight. Sixteen. Twenty. Busy night, with twenty people here. Everyone from college kids to washed-up old novelists, clutching sheets of paper and tablets and sketchbooks. Brown hair, a broad forehead, and features too large for his face, Brendon, always there, every meeting, started this slam, started off. “Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman. From then on, you’ll be out of place and underdressed. Welcome to the Underground Poetry Slam. Nothing is off limits, say what you came here to say. If you don’t like it, leave now. This is not for the faint of heart. I thank you,” Brendon stepped down, nodding his head at the boy with the mop of dark hair and the skinny arms and the floral top.

     He stepped up to the front, and, Patrick noticed, there was no paper in his hands. He introduced himself as Ryan, Ryan Ross, and fuck, if that wasn’t a name and a half. “If all our life is but a dream, fantastic posing greed, then we should feed our jewelry to the sea...” 

     The poem had an air of finality to it, almost like saying goodbye. “Hey, moon, please forget to fall down,” every time he repeated those words, Patrick felt shivers down his spine, felt an air of almost foreboding, and then Ryan stepped down. The girl beside him with the half-and-half hair, Melanie, Melanie Martinez, and really, was everyone’s name here like that? “One, two, melatonin’s comin’ for you, three, four, baby won’t you lock the door...” her poem almost sounded childish, “Sing you a lullaby where you die in the end,” with a grotesque twist. Patrick wasn’t entirely sure if he liked it.

     Poem after poem, song after song, Patrick felt himself zoning out, until everyone had gone...except him. “Patrick. Patrick Stumph,” everyone’s expression remained bored. Ryan actually yawned. Dick.

     “Am I more than you bargained for, yet? I’ve been dying to tell you anything you want to hear, ‘cause that’s just who I am this week...” faces perked up. Melanie’s eyes widened. Even Ryan (dick) stopped yawning so profusely. “Don’t mind me, I’m watching you two from the closet, wishing to be the friction in your jeans...” his poem exuded sex and rejection. Snaps followed his performance. Patrick sat back in his seat, expecting Brendon to close them out when...another man stepped up, and God, Patrick wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug him and kiss him better or if he wanted to rush him to the nearest hospital.

      The man was incredibly thin, looked as if he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months, like an anaemic college kid that hadn’t eaten in a few weeks. His skin, Patrick could tell, was once dark, he was possibly a person of colour, but it had been dimmed to a pale greyish hue. His eyes were the colour of malt whiskey, but they held little life. His hair was a mess of spikes and waves and curls, once nearly taken care of, now left in disarray. Patrick wondered why someone like him was at a slam poetry meeting rather than the hospital. Then again, this slam poetry group had always been...different.

     His hoodie hung off of him awkwardly, and his jeans, obviously once skin-tight, wrinkled around his knees and his thighs.  “Pete.” His voice was deep, and oddly enough, he sounded healthy. “Pete Wentz.” In his hand he clutched a grocery receipt, and he had his other hand in his pocket. 

     He sat down on the small stool in the middle of the floor, looking tired from just standing. From his pocket, he pulled...a bottle of prescription medication?

     A shake of the bottle caught everyone’s attention. The pills inside rattled. “Shake. Rattle. Roll.” Pete’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, but he held the room captive, as though all eyes were magnetized to him. 

     “Shake, rattle, roll. 

       All those years of hiding, starting to take their toll. 

       Shake, rattle, roll.

       Pills giving me the laughter that he so often stole.

       I swallow another, and another, chasing that sweet, sweet high.

       Inside my head, my brain, my mind not really caring if I die.

       Burning my throat, chemicals shooting me down to hell and back up to the sky.

       I swallow another pill. 

        Chasing that happiness that he somehow killed.

         Wishing that somehow, some way, my sadness can be spilled.

         Little white circles, so harmless at first, yet vicious, murderers with skill.

        I can’t stop, swallow, spit, swallow some more. 

       Watching as he kicks and laughs and spits in my face, a pretty little whore.

       He says I can’t stop myself and I believe him, his little junkie at the core.

       Kick, spit, laugh, leave, leave me all alone to die bleeding on the floor.

       I get up. Limp to the bathroom.

       I swallow another pill.

       I get help. I see a doctor. He says I’m okay, just messed up in the head.

       Doc takes away the drugs he gave me, give me new ones instead.

       They can’t stop, won’t stop, can never stop me hearing the things he said.

       With a soft step, quiet as a mouse, soft as a cat, so no one can see my tread.

       I swallow another pill.

       I swallow another pill.

       I swallow another pill.

     I swallow the whole bottle, hoping to make it stop, turn off my brain

     I don’t expect them to find me, revive me, push my pills down the drain.

     I hold no hate for them, no malice, no disdain.

      I just wish they would have let me be, end my life without any pain.

      I’m still here though. Still alive, heart still beating.

      Every week a doctor comes, makes sure I’m sleeping, still eating.

      So many times, though, I find myself screaming, screaming, screaming.

     Wondering why I’m always dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

     I swallow another pill. 

     It makes the pain go away. I want it back. I want to hurt.

     Pain reminds me I’m alive, not just a thing, not just a pretty thing in a skirt.

     Yet still, over and over and over again.

     I swallow another pill,”

     Patrick couldn’t even remember to snap after his performance. Ryan didn’t either, and on his face was a look of pure shock. Patrick didn’t remember cornering Pete. Didn’t remember asking to take him home. Didn’t remember Pete agreeing. Didn’t remember kissing Pete against the door of his apartment.

     He remembered the feeling of smooth skin under his hands. Remembered the sound of soft gasps under his lips. Hands tugging at his hair. Tears that weren’t his own on his cheeks. Pete was crying, eyes shining with tears, cheeks covered in tiny droplets, diamonds against pale caramel. He couldn’t. He-he couldn’t. Patrick couldn’t do this to him.

     Pete spewed his life story. Got into a relationship. Got into drugs. Became a junkie, really, and his boyfriend whored him out for cheap. Didn’t see him as worth anything. He got out, barely. Still wanted a high every day. Patrick cuddled Pete into his chest, feeling sharp ridges of bone against his own soft tummy. “Patrick?” Pete asked. “Yeah, Pete?” An audible swallow. “Don’t be like him. Please,” Pete said, before getting up, collecting his jacket, and leaving.

     Patrick went to the poetry slam the next week. The first person up held a fast-food napkin in his hand. His eyes were whiskey brown, and on his cheeks, tiny little diamonds glittered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
